


Perfection In Your Flaws

by Nellie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: First Meetings, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-17
Updated: 2010-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-15 18:11:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nellie/pseuds/Nellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's such an obvious secret, and Eames is surprised it took him so long to figure it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfection In Your Flaws

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for this kink meme prompt [HERE](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/9742.html?thread=19129614#t19129614)

Like most people, Eames’s first impression of Arthur is one of precision and perfection. He sees him in the periphery as Cobb is talking; a flash of silver PASIV case and cufflinks at the table off to the right.

Cobb notices the direction of his attention, and smiles. “That’s our point man. Best in the business, let me tell you.” He raises his voice. “Arthur? Come meet our new forger.”

He already knows Arthur is the best in the business, of course. Eames doesn’t take a job without doing some background checks of his own first, and Arthur’s name had come up next to “brilliant” and “excellent” with enough frequency that his first impression was probably a little bit biased anyway.

He notes the way Arthur leads with his right foot when he walks, the cadence of the movement indicating a military background. That in turn means Eames can’t draw any conclusions about his handedness from which foot went first... all army boys walked right foot first, even if they were left-handed.

Cobb gestures between them in that vague way most people did in some form when they were introducing people. “Eames, this is Arthur. Arthur, Eames.”

His eyes are brown, and only crease at the edges with his professional smile to about a three on a scale of one to ten, one being a blank face and ten being hysterically happy. “A pleasure, Mr. Eames,” he says, offering his hand.

Eames shakes Arthur’s hand and within those few seconds he’s reasonably confident that Arthur is in fact right-handed. He’s also confident that, while he looks like he’d cry if somebody rumpled his slicked-back hair, he could kill a man with those pianist hands. “Much obliged, Arthur.”

He’s met Mal before (she’s beautiful, the epitome of clichéd French class, and if he were at all that way inclined he’d be bloody jealous of Cobb), so it doesn’t take long before they’re all focused on the job at hand.

 _Mostly_ focused. There’s a part of Eames that never really stops paying attention to people, catching the subtle cues that make them what they are. And by the end of the day, he knows that Arthur is a true ambidextrous who favours his right hand, never fidgets with his hair (like so many people who keep theirs styled do), and likes pop music as much as classical (he hummed along with each, no matter how many times Mal changed the radio station). Among other things. He files it all away in the new mental compartment titled ‘Arthur; Point Man’ and stores it alongside the hundreds of others he’s accumulated over the years.

Arthur’s still at his desk after the Cobbs leave for the day, drawing routes in different shades of highlighter across maps of the mark’s usual haunts. Eames shrugs on his jacket as he approaches, switching on the lamp Arthur has yet to touch despite the lengthening shadows. “I suppose you’re too busy to go out for a drink then, hmm?” He asks the question blandly, with blank enough intonation that Arthur can read whatever he chooses into the request.

“You would be correct,” he replies, not even looking up. He’s intent on the maps, focus so sharp it should probably be cutting the paper.

Eames needs to know if he can break it. “Too busy for chinese food and some coffee?”

Arthur does look up then. Of course he doesn’t even have a hair out of place, despite the long day. The smile that curves his mouth is smaller than his professional one, but shows at the corner of his eyes as about a four and a half out of ten. “Now that’s a plan I can get behind, Mr. Eames.”

Hours later, Eames is aware that Arthur uses chopsticks left-handed, can discuss Jung with delightful competency, and swings on his chairs when he’s thinking.

His first impression wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t entirely right, either.

*

It doesn’t take many more shared jobs before Eames starts to realise Arthur is as much of a paradox as the looped staircases he likes so much. He can be a perfectionist, professional and unflappable almost to the point of pain, but on the other hand...

Eames drums his fingers against the sweating glass of his pint as Arthur gestures, noting the way the muscles in his forearms flex with the movements, rolled sleeves almost slipping down.

“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with enjoying a book for things other than its technical efficacy,” he says, voice raised over the constant background thrum of the pub. “But at the same time, Rowling falls really short on basic plot construction in a lot of places.”

Eames hasn’t actually said anything for about fifteen minutes, happy to just drink his beer and listen to Arthur. He’d loosened his tie a few minutes after they’d left the warehouse (Eames had noticed this weeks ago, returning to the mental notes from their first meeting to cross out the assumption that Arthur would cry if someone rumpled him. Arthur was more than content to rumple _himself_ ) and suggested this particular locale for what was becoming their regular after-hours drink.

He was particularly fond of criticizing things in these discussions... books, music, movies; Rowling being an author he could expound on for hours, especially with a few drinks under his belt. Eames had been tempted to put this critical streak down to an expression of Arthur’s desire for perfection, but he wasn’t so sure about that anymore.

“It begs the question of how much the opinions of others influence your reaction to a book,” Eames adds finally, when Arthur pauses to sip his own beer. “Word-of-mouth and the media played a big part in how successful the series became. In fact, you could probably ask that question about anything. Movies, people, what-have-you.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow, digging in his pocket for the crumpled pack of cigarettes that lives in the bottom of his satchel until he steps into a pub, at which point they are transferred to his pocket. He only ever smokes two, no more or less, and Eames has yet to figure out the story behind that. A show of self-control? Habit? Some mathematical formula predicting the optimal nicotine-to-life-expectancy bell curve? It should matter, that kind of detail, but when Arthur taps the cigarette out and holds it between his lips just so as he lights it, he can’t bring himself to care _why_ when it looks so good.

“It’s particularly true about people,” he says after his first drag, soft tendrils of smoke curling across the pitted wood of the table. “To tell the truth, your reputation preceded you, Mr. Eames.”

  
It’s Eames’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Oh?” The syllable is a formality only. Of course Arthur would have done the same kind of digging in his background as he had done in Arthur’s.

He lifts the cigarette again, taps it against his lower lip. He does the same thing with pens and sundry other writing instruments, too. Then he smiles (it’s a six or a seven, easily, this time). “I was pleasantly surprised by the reality.”

Eames watches as he breathes in the bitter smoke. He still hasn’t figured Arthur out, not completely. But it doesn’t matter. “Me too,” he says as he lifts his glass.

*

They finish a job in Munich in the middle of winter, only the third one they’ve done solo. Mal and Dom were busy with their newest family addition, and it had been nice to watch Arthur work without the influence Dom had on him.

It’s even nicer watching him now, hands tucked into the pockets of his heavy coat to protect them from the snowfall, nose pink, breath showing in soft clouds. Most people hunched a little in the cold, but not Arthur.

“You liked the expressionist pieces best,” Eames says as they walk, shoulder to shoulder, down the snowy footpath away from the Galerie Maulberger. He’d expected to learn something new from Arthur’s artistic preferences, hence his suggestion they visit the gallery in the first place, but the answer isn’t one he can integrate smoothly into the information already in his ‘Arthur; Point Man’ file. He’d expected Arthur to prefer a cleaner style, something more precise.

He’d been wrong, and it bothers him.

Arthur shrugs. “They’re interesting. Dynamic.”

“If interesting and dynamic are your cup of tea, it explains why you like our line of work so much.”

There is silence for a moment, nothing but the soft whisper of the wind and the falling snow. Then, “It explains why I like you so much, too.”

Eames stops to look at Arthur. He’d been on the verge of a breakthrough, an explanation, but the words from Arthur’s mouth had broken the tenuous realisation. Snow has caught in his hair, stark against the black, and he has to resist the sudden urge to brush it away. “You think I’m interesting?”

Arthur’s smile is complicated, too wry to properly quantify on a scale of one to ten. On a scale of how much Eames would have liked to kiss the thin curve of his lips, however, it was at least an eight and a half. “I thought that was obvious.”

“Nothing about you is obvious, Arthur,” he says as he starts walking again, and it’s the truth.

*

There’s no perfection or precision to the first time they fuck, on the couch in Eames’s living room. Clothes are strewn, tea is forgotten, and his first impression of Arthur is completely erased under the hard thrust of the point man’s body. It’s not exactly the most ideal location, television still on in the background and the gentle simmering sounds from the kitchen reminding him that _fuck_ , the bolognaise was going to burn at this rate, but it tells him more about Arthur than just about anything else so far, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Arthur leans low over him, hands braced on the arm of the couch. He’s making soft noises in Eames’s ear and by god, he really hopes he’s going to get a chance to learn and analyse every single fucking one. “ _Christ_ ,Arthur, why do you sound so bloody good?” He gets out, lips trailing over his pulse.

His reply is breathless, and it really is the best thing Eames has ever heard. “I’m fucking you, and the first thing you think of is how I _sound?_ ”

The syllables are breaking at the edges, and it goes straight to his cock. He knows voices. He has to study them, to mimic them, and Arthur’s precise enunciation falling apart because of _him_ is almost enough to put him over the edge. “Among other things. Like—“

Arthur bucks his hips forward harder, vicious, and the words are lost as Eames comes. He bites down on the taut line of the pale neck stretched so close to his mouth, feeling Arthur’s pulse pound under his tongue as he rides it out. He doesn’t let go until Arthur cries out and he was wrong, again; those little noises were nothing compared to how he sounds when he comes, whole lithe body shuddering against him.

They lie together for only a moment before Arthur gets up. Eames stretches, feeling the languid warmth in his limbs, and carefully files away the knowledge that Arthur is not a cuddler as he deftly retrieves his cotton boxers from the other side of the coffee table and pads away. Eames waits until he hears water running before getting up, slowly, still a little unsteady, and heading to the bathroom.

Arthur looks good in nothing but sex hair and shorts, standing at his vanity, but he’d been expecting that. “I think the bolognaise will survive, if I get to it in the next five minutes,” he says as he cleans himself up, dragging a chocolate-coloured towel from the rack to wrap around his waist.

“I hope so. It smells good,” he says, absently running his fingers through his hair (interesting, maybe he only does that after sex?) before trailing them down his throat, pausing at the dark red indents.

Eames stills, watching the reflection in the mirror as Arthur traces the jagged teeth marks with his fingers and a look of earnest concentration. There’s only a touch of blood, but they stand out as an imperfect circle against the perfect skin of his neck, as much of a testament to a childhood lacking in orthodontia as they are to a moment of passion.

“Sorry.”

Arthur turns from the mirror. “What for?” He smiles slowly, a solid eight, and it makes Eames’s stomach flip. “I’m not.”

It only takes two steps to close the space between them, and Eames runs a hand lightly up Arthur’s bare arm (he gets goosebumps, a useful tell that warrants thorough future experimentation) and shoulder, until his fingers rest against the marks on the curve of his neck. “I’m not a pretty biter.”

Arthur’s face is blank for a few seconds, before he laughs. “God, Eames. No, I was just looking at it.” He tilts his head just a fraction to the side, returning his attention to the bite in the mirror. “I like it. It’s _you_. Flaws are more interesting than perfection, anyway.”

That’s it, that’s the epiphany. Hundreds of little observations and notations suddenly fall into place in the greater picture that is _Arthur_ , and Eames mentally kicks himself for not being able to see it sooner.

He grins, and soothes the mark with his thumb. “Well, I’m glad you think so then.”

*

The bolognaise is none the worse for wear, and they settle back on the couch for dinner. Eames watches Arthur watching the T.V, and tries to stop smiling like an idiot. It’s such an obvious secret, that for all his precision and perfection it’s really the imperfections in things that Arthur loves, but it still took even him long enough to figure out.

He rubs Arthur’s foot where it rests casually in his lap, and files the new information away in the mental compartment titled ‘Arthur; Point Man’.  



End file.
